


Resignation

by clear_sight



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, PTSD, Pre-Series 1, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-04
Updated: 2012-06-04
Packaged: 2017-11-06 19:08:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/422186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clear_sight/pseuds/clear_sight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What was the point of it?  Of him?  He couldn't even call this living anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resignation

**Author's Note:**

> This is a drabble, basically. I felt like writing some angst. Of course we all know what happens immediately after the last scene. But I may add to this, although it wasn't in the plan. John as a soldier and as someone who suffers from depression and PTSD doesn't get as much attention as it probably should, in my humble opinion. So I might continue this, even though right now there isn't a plan to. It was just spontaneous angst. Because that's what I do sometimes.  
> As per usual, not Beta'd or Brit-picked and Sherlock belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC.

There were days when John wasn’t even sure why he bothered to get out of bed at all.  What was the point?  He had nothing.  No friends, no family he was willing to associate with, no job even.  All he had was this depressing little grey bedsit and a therapist and a blog he never updated.  And even that wasn’t going to last much longer.  His army pension wasn’t going to keep him in London forever.  So really, what was the point?

That was the thought that slipped like tar across his mind as he dragged himself from the depths of a nightmare.  It clung there, burning into his consciousness, when he pulled his laptop from his desk drawer and caught sight of his gun.  Why was he here?  What was the sense in this?

What got him through the morning was not some sense of inner strength.  It was not determination.  It was the thought that he had his weekly session with Ella today and if he didn’t show up she was likely to send someone to check on him.  She knew how dark his moods could be.  And if she sent someone to check on him they would find his body.  And then they would call the police.  And the police would notify Harry.  And then he’d have the police _and_ Harry going through his flat and Harry would realize just how pathetic his life had been since he came home from Afghanistan and refused her help and he would _not_ give her that.  Not today.  He couldn’t handle that today.  It didn’t even make sense, really, because he would be dead, but nevertheless he couldn’t handle that.

And so that became the point, at least for the morning.  That became his reason to get dressed and force down a piece of toast and a cup of coffee.  It became his reason for leaving his bedsit today.  Certainly there were other, possibly more pressing reasons.  Like that his kitchen wasn’t stocked with much more than the end of a loaf of bread, some jam, a carton of milk he wasn’t entirely sure he trusted, a box of tea, and some instant coffee.  He hadn’t been to the shops in a while.  He hadn’t been hungry enough to care to go.  Funny what his darker moods did to his appetite.  And it seemed the longer he was in that damnable bedsit the darker they became.

Somewhere between the flashbacks and the nightmares and the hours of sobbing over the comrades he couldn’t save, John found himself missing the battlefield.  That made no sense.  He shouldn’t miss that.  But there it was.  Afghanistan had made sense.  In Afghanistan he wasn’t John Watson, unemployed cripple, he was John Watson, soldier and doctor.  He knew his place and his job.  His duty.  His purpose.  He had _had_ a purpose.  Serve, protect, defend, and heal.  It was what he knew, what he was good at.  It was what he loved.  This… this was little more than drifting.  It was barely worth existing – because this could not be called living – if this was all there was.

It was fortunate for him that John Watson, soldier, still existed somewhere in his battered psyche, because that allowed him to do at least a half way decent job of hiding these thoughts from Ella.  He shouldn’t, he knew.  He was a doctor, he _knew_ how dangerous suicidal ideation was.  But yet, being on this side of it, he couldn’t bring himself to care.  He didn’t want to be sectioned.  That would be worse than being resigned to his tiny grey hell he was currently inhabiting.  And so his mask continued to serve him well.  At least he didn’t have to lie.  Nothing ever did happen to him.

It was on his way to the shops after his therapy session, and after a brief mental argument with himself about the state of his kitchen and the fact that he was already out, that he ran into Mike Stamford.  He hadn’t seen Mike since uni, but he still recognized the man’s voice.  At first he tried to ignore him, pretend he hadn’t heard him, but Mike was just as persistent as ever.  All John wanted was to get his shopping done and get back to his bedsit so that he could stay there until next week’s session.  He didn’t want to deal with people.  He didn’t want to be faced with anyone who didn’t understand the reality he inhabited. 

That idea was only reinforced with Mike’s questions.  “I heard you got shot in Afghanistan?  What happened, then?”

“I got shot,” John replied shortly, coldly, hoping to put the man off.  This was exactly what he did _not_ want to deal with.  This was why he had spent the last three months holed up in his tiny bedsit, ignoring the rest of the world.  Mike, however, had always been good with people and soon he had John settled on a nearby park bench, bemoaning the fact that he couldn’t stay in London.

“You should get a flat-share,” Mike offered helpfully. 

As though it was that simple.  Never mind the fact that he woke up screaming nearly every night.  Never mind the fact that he barely seemed to be able to go a day without a meltdown.  Never mind that whoever he might end up living with stood a very good chance of coming home one day to a dead body in their flat.  But he couldn’t say any of that, so he settled for a self-deprecating smile and a wistful, “Who’d want me for a flatmate?”

How was he supposed to anticipate Mike’s reply?  The mischievous twinkle in his eye as he answered, “You know, you’re the second person to say that to me today.”


End file.
